Last night, I was delivering food, and in the middle of the night, I received an order with a note: "Bring an extra pack of hangover medicine."

I delivered it to the door of a KTV private room, and inside, they were still singing "Even if I die, I will love."
A woman with heavy makeup opened the door, took the medicine, and shoved cash into my hand.
Behind her, on the sofa, a middle-aged man was slumped, his suit wrinkled, and his tie half undone.
I asked if she needed help calling a designated driver, and she said no, then she turned around and pressed the door shut.
As I was about to leave, I heard her low growl at the man: "Get your act together, my husband is waiting for you downstairs."
That woman later called a designated driver herself and left.
I watched her get into the ride-hailing car, the headlights turned on, and on the left rear passenger seat, a boy about seven or eight years old sat with his face pressed against the window, his nose flattened against the glass.
The neon lights of the KTV shone on the side window of the white BYD, he wasn’t asleep, nor did he wave; he just pressed his palm against the inside of the window until the car drove away from the trash bin downstairs of the rental house.
Only then did I realize that the ride-hailing car had come and gone again; the driver hadn’t turned off the engine and had returned to pick her up.
While waiting downstairs earlier, the boy had been staring at the reflection in the second-floor window; in the reflection, there was no me, only himself.